Clawing Back to the Surface
by Echo Chambers
Summary: When He left, He took part of me with him and left a gaping chasm in my chest. The hole pulls and grows and splits and tears and burns me… I just needed it to stop. I never thought I'd end up like this…


It was… gray inside me. There was no other way to describe it. Everything was so perfectly muted. The clothes in my closet were all hung, properly facing right. Every calculus problem was solved and understood. The night's dinner was put carefully away in the fridge and all the counters had been wiped down. In the center of my room my bed was made without a wrinkle. In front of the house I'd parked my car and the keys were hung on the nail above my dresser. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. And I couldn't feel a thing.

Of course, there was something dark in the back of my mind, but I wouldn't - couldn't - let the last six months slide forward in my memory. It was all sealed away. I was perfect. It was grey. And that's how it would remain forever, or until time muted the pain and blurred the memories. Just like He said it would. A sharpness bit at my side at the thought. That wasn't perfect. I didn't want to think about that.

But it was true. It was what He had said. I would forget about Him and move on. That it would be like He never existed. It was a chunk in my chest, a black, festering wound that burned at the edges and ached with the emptiness. I needed grey. I needed numbness. My legs shook as I stumbled the step to my bed and collapsed onto the perfect covers, wrinkling them in worried lines. I clutched my chest desperately as the ache blurred the scene around me. A thick film covered my eyes, but tears were frozen inside me, frozen with the numbness. Unshed, they were my fog. My thick, protective fog that was fluffy and soft. My mind focused in on the blurred image of my window and the pain seemed unbarable.

The window was open a crack, not enough to see through my smeared vision, but I knew it was open enough to get a finger under. Enough for… someone to push it open if they…

My gaze never strayed from the window, even as the wound in my heart punched deeper and was scraped even more raw. A hand trailed slowly, lightly, over the covers beneath me. The crinkled, worried covers. Their deep creases frowned and grimaced with me. Their wrinkles - their blemishes - were real. It was touchable. It was avoidable, fixable, seeable. The arm around my chest held on tighter, so tight it hurt. It felt slightly, comforting, to be uncomfortable. I turned my mind inwards on the close and physical discomfort on my chest. It was safer. It was grey, boring.

I don't know how long I lay there before I fell asleep. All I know was that when I woke up the light was off and my clock was ticking away five in the morning. I stood and brushed out the wrinkles. I walked to the bathroom and turned on the water. I took a shower. I put on jeans and a tee-shirt and a sweatshirt and I made breakfast. I went to school. I attended classes and sat at lunch. I attended more classes and drove home. I made dinner and fed Charlie and cleaned up. I went back upstairs.

I didn't feel a thing.

And that was good. That was safe. I changed and tried to ignore the black garbage bag in the closet. Tried. I would forget about Him. Like he never existed.

I knew that wasn't what I wanted. I knew that the greyness, the safe fog, it wasn't what I wanted either. Because, for all the pain He brought me, it was better than feeling nothing at all. I couldn't hide the hole in my chest, and I couldn't ignore it either. My arms were clenching themselves around my ribs before I even realized the perfection cracking under the pain. But it helped. The feeling of my cold hands through the light cotton shirt comforted me. The ache in my clenched muscles grounded me. It stablalized my mind as the heart-tearing agony of Him washed over me. I was crumpled on the floor, rolled into a ball, but I wasn't sobbing. I wasn't mindless. I was just panting and gasping and holding on.

I had to hold on. Through all the pain inside I had to distract myself. I could not sleep. I couldn't do any more chores or focus my watery eyes on any text book, but I could feel. My fingers were digging into my side, the unkempt nails were pinching at the skin, little nips of reality to break through the daze. I hurt so much, but I could think two things at once, and that lessened the impact of them both.

It took along time. The sun was set and the mumbling TV had been turned off by the time I followed the scrabbling annoyance of my nails into reality. I blinked slowly and sat up, careful to not look anywhere in particular. I turned off the lights and went to bed. That night I didn't dream.

And that week I followed machine-like through the motions and I still collapsed in pain when the thoughts couldn't be held back any longer, but when that happened, I was saner. In the safety of my room I was surviving as I tied my pain back to reality through it's more physical relative: pinches. But I didn't sleep well again.

It was so, so frustrating. The feeling of me, that underlying feeling of sanity that I'd felt only nights ago was escaping. Even as my fingers clenched into my skin all I could feel was His goneness. I could hardly feel the world anymore. I hurt so much…

The finger nails scrabbled helplessly at my ribs, moving on to scratch desperately at my arms, my neck, my face.. The tears were welling up in my eyes and dripping down my face, but the pain was more distant. My fingers raked at my shoulders. He was gone.

And that was enough. I could get up and make breakfast and go to school without thought. I could make dinner and shower without hurting. And at night, in my bed, I clung to as much reality as I could wishing for sleep and dreading the dreams. Beneath the long sleeves of late fall, angry red scratch marks littered my torso. The occasional turtleneck helped too.

It was amazing, how much this Grounding helped. It centered me. It protected me. But again, it was only so good. I didn't know what else to do. It was only an seemingly enormous amount of time later that anything changed. Really, it was probably less than three weeks.

I was walking to dinner with Jessica - Charlie practically forced me to socialize - after a movie about zombies. And I saw three men that I thought had chased me down those back streets months earlier. It was as I was walking towards them that I heard it. His velvet voice, clear as day, talking in my head. It was like he was right there beside me. I whirled around to look for him - but he wasn't there. I took another step, and again he was in my head, as beautiful as if he had spoken directly into my ear. I could practically feel his intoxicating breath on my neck.

I needed to hear him again. I didn't care it he was yelling at me or praising me, worrying about me or despising me. The pain hit me before I was even home. Parked at the side of the road I couldn't see a thing through my desperate tears. Huge sobs wracked my body, catching my breath and chocking me on tears. Both hands tore at my flesh in desperation. I had to hold on.

It wasn't enough. Nothing could stop the tidal waves of agony that shook my frame nor muffle the sobs that burnt my throat and filled the truck. An icy burn was running rampant through my veins, spreading from my broken heart out to the very tips of my hair and edges of my fingernails. The gaping hole where the stereo had once been only hurt me further. My hands were slamming into the dashboard before I had even decided to move.

Hard, plastic and metal edges bruised my flesh in sharp and dull blotches. Harder and harder I beat my hands and inner arms against the unyielding truck. The delicate flesh of my inner arm caught on a rough edge where I ripped out the stereo. The stinging scratch finally made me pause. My heavy, gasping breaths filled the truck, emphasizing the silence. The grey weather and empty road left me alone. Slowly, I moved my abused arms in front of me and pushed up the sleeves. I lay them, palm up, on the steering wheel before me. The pink scratch was slowly, slowly, filling with blood. It was fascinating. Never before had I been able to stomach the sight of blood, but I was so detached…

Looking back it was one of the most magical moments. Watching in silence, my breaths slowing, the pain receding. Then all I knew was the facts. There was no emotion. It was not my blood, it was no ones blood. It was not new, painful bruises, but a unique painting of colors on a pale, flesh toned canvas. It was captivating, breathtakingly beautiful. I stared in pure silence as the cut filled to the top with slow, sluggish blood, and one scarlet drop appeared.

It was small, so small, just a tiny product of a tiny scratch. Not enough blood for the average paper cut. But it was so pretty.

I sat like that, stone still and hardly breathing, until a honk brought me out of my peace. With one jerk of my wrist all evidence was hidden. The long-dried scratch and bruises were safe under the long navy sleeves. I cranked down the window. Jacob's worried face met mine,

"You okay Bella?" he asked. I stared at him. I didn't know what to say. My mind was still slow, taking in every minute detail around me with care and not bothering to think about the situation. "I thought you might need a hand…" his voice trailed off. I was staring at his brow. It was defined, higher and more powerful than Charlie or Mark's, or His… Very Native American. His eyes too, were a deep Native Brown that was wise, like the trees. Trees, with their twisted trunks and bare branches were so wise and other worldly. Like Him…

Carefully, I pressed my bruised arm harder against the steering wheel. He didn't seem to notice, and I calmed inside at the Grounding. I could focus better on his words. "No, Jacob," I said far too late. My words were lazy and slow. His face wanted an answer, but he - meraculously - refrained from asking. I didn't know what excuse I could give.

"Well, okay," he said awkwardly. He took a step back. My hand found the window crank. "See you around," he excused himself. I rolled up my window as he went back on his way, walking home. I knew I shouldn't have come that far out. I could feel his eyes on me as I drove away.

That night I couldn't help but glance in the mirror as I changed. It was a mess that looked back at me. A familiar mess. There were purple bags beneath my eyes, and my hair was frizzy even in its ponytail. The acne on my forehead had gotten worse, not horrible, but it was a noticeable red without cover-up. But with my shirt off and just about to step into the shower, it was the arms that caught my attention. Gently, carefully, I let my fingers trace over the wounds. The scratch was so thin and delicate, one tiny brown line on pale skin. It was hardly noticeable. It'd be gone in a few days. The rest through… old scratches marked my upper arms in wide, pink streaks. Yellow and pale brown bruises were polka-dotting my lower arms. It was so pretty.

I felt so peaceful, so empty, as I traced the dots absent mindedly. It was right. It was real. I didn't regret it and I didn't even fear it. There was nothing to be afraid of. The long sleeves hid it all too easily. The back up excuse of my klutzy nature was too smooth. And the blessed Grounding they provided me with… it was amazing. The water in the shower had to be hot already, but I didn't want to take my eyes off the marks. Reluctantly, I looked away and stepped under the water. I wondered what He would say… I pressed my thumb down hard over a bruise and the thought melted away. Easy, too easy.

…

It was too easy. It was never going to stay so simple. Paper cuts and little bruises could never hold back all that pain. I needed a dreamless night, just one. One peaceful night without Him or the pain. But my fists weren't strong enough. They banged against my thighs, but I couldn't feel it enough. The greyness was everywhere when I didn't feel. I couldn't bang my walls or desk like I had in the truck either. Just down stairs the mumble of the television marked Charlie's night time TV hour. In my chest the hole was starting to burn. The plastic bag in the closet. The cracked-open window. The emptied photo book. The innocent questions on e-mail…

The gap in my heart was on fire. There were scissors on the desk. The metalic mouth opened wide, scratching a desperate line down my arm. It stung, but the blood was too slow. The arm was too far. The hole was tearing my apart. I was falling apart. The blank, green turtleneck pulled up. The scissors scratched down. Harder. A jagged scratch from breastbone to naval. It stung. Clasping my stomach with both hands I whimpered as the pain screamed. But it broke through everything. Lifting up the shirt I worriedly checked for blood. It was rising quicker than before.

I put the scissors back on the desk. I hoped they looked innocent enough. I opened the door and walked quietly to the bathroom. The door shut at the same time as the lock clicked. He wouldn't suspect anything. I lifted the shirt and stared in the mirror. I watched with a detached smile as the blood welled at the bottom of the cut into a droplet. It tipped over the edge. It sped downward in jerky bursts - nearly touching my jeans. Smearing it back with a finger I fumbled for the toilet paper. It couldn't have a mess! I couldn't - what would Charlie think? He'd jump to conclusions. He'd think there was something wrong. But there wasn't. Hardly. A scratch would heal in a few days. And a scratch was not a problem. Not like suicide, or cutting. Not depression. It was preservation. Innocent.

I traced the cut lovingly. On my exposed forearm, the first, hesitant scratch was wild, but just pink. No blood, and just the lightest of stings. Already the stomach cut didn't hurt much. I wished I'd brought the scissors into the bathroom. I wanted more.

"No." I slammed my shirt down so fast I feared it would rip. Whirling around I searched for Him. I'd heard His voice. Hadn't I? No one was there. The TV was still playing downstairs. The bathroom was silent save for my breathing and the dripping tap. I turned the faucet harder. The bloody toilet square was put in the toilet and flushed away. In my room I changed with my back to the shuttered window and facing the wall. No one needed the chance to see, to question. I scratched the cut on my stomach and let the tingling numb my thoughts. Lying in bed, my fingers picked at the scabbing skin until I fell asleep. I was calm. I was okay.

A/N: So, that's where this ends. It was just a little snippit-story I thought of one day. It's not going anywhere, but I thought it'd be fun to post. Not many fics that I've read spend the time to walk a character into self harm. Most just jump right in. I felt it'd be a nice addition to the Twilight Realm of Fan Fiction.


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